Just-High-Enough Art

By Lynn Hirschberg

Published: July 7, 2002

Sam Mendes loves games. Real games like cricket and soccer and backgammon, but also the subtler puzzles that take the form of plays and movies. He thinks about his work -- whether it be reconceiving a musical like ''Cabaret'' for the Donmar Warehouse, his London theater, or directing a movie like ''American Beauty,'' for which he won an Academy Award his first time out -- as a kind of contest, bound by rules of intelligence, insight and strategy. He is not an accidental person, hoping luck will win the day. Mixing instinct, research and some large thematic idea geared to resonate with a wide audience, Mendes carefully gauges everything from the mood-capturing potential of his new film, ''Road to Perdition'' (''I hadn't seen a gangster movie in a while'') to the best way to attract a crowd to the plays of Arthur Schnitzler (have the star, Nicole Kidman, be naked just long enough to be both appropriate to the character and still scandalous). Having run a theater for the last decade, Mendes, who is only 36, thinks like a studio head even when he's directing. Which means that he tries to win for both teams: commerce and art.

So far, he has never lost. Mendes wears his triumph lightly, but like most overachievers, he is conscious of expectations. He knows that ''American Beauty'' was a phenomenon: a pop meditation on suburban values that cost only $15 million and grossed $350 million worldwide, while winning five Oscars, including Best Picture. Yet he also knows that some of the movie's success, both financial and critical, can be attributed to one of his trademark talents: the memorable visual flourish. Mendes has done this with plays again and again; in ''Cabaret,'' for instance, he turned the entire theater into the Kit Kat Club and made the dive, which became increasingly decadent as the musical unfolded, a metaphor for Weimar Germany. In ''American Beauty,'' a videotape of a plastic bag floating in the wind became a symbol for life's possibilities; a suburban dad's fantasy about seducing a teenage girl was transformed by cascading rose petals. ''Sam Mendes is the first director I have hired from the theater,'' says Steven Spielberg, whose company, DreamWorks, produced both of Mendes's films. ''He has the eye of a camera even when he's staging theater. His theater is cinematic, and his cinema is theatrical.''

The gorgeous wrapping of his productions is Mendes's invitation to his audience. Underneath, things are more complicated. His films have a surface optimism and earnestness, but they are never naïve. Mendes knows exactly how to balance the dark and the light. ''You have to have a secret,'' Mendes says, explaining his strategy. ''There is a hidden movie in all the best films. The secret is in every frame. With a play, the secret is your way in, an idea that dominates the production. But in a good movie, there is always a shadow movie underneath the text, which allows the film to float above reality.''

It is a Friday afternoon in May, and Mendes, dressed in his uniform of jeans, T-shirt and zippered sweater, is sitting at the conference table in his London office at the Donmar. He has a soft, expressive face dominated by large, round blue eyes that are rimmed in dark lashes. This makes him look something like Bambi, although his manner is not that of a lost woodland creature. Mendes is highly articulate and savvy. He knows precisely what percentages of tragedy, joy, beauty and daring to mix together in his work. Artists are not often this clear about their art; such analysis can seem calculated. But Mendes is refreshingly direct about his work. He has considered the plays and movies from every angle and is not interested in being mysterious.

''With 'Perdition,' there are two layers,'' he says. ''First, there's a subtle, complex layer about violence and redemption and the secret life our parents lead that we never really know about. That's the secret movie. Then there's the other movie, which is a more conventional narrative about fathers and sons. That movie appeals across the board.'' He pauses. ''And it's easier to sell.''

Mendes has embraced this equation again and again: big themes, striking visuals, pleasing the audience. ''He has always had an eye for which way the wind is blowing,'' says Simon Russell Beale, an esteemed London stage actor who is one of Mendes's good friends. ''Sam has a great producer's eye, even when he's directing. And Sam has that great sense of chic. He likes things to be neat. He likes his designs to be clean; he likes symmetry. He's very clever. And cleverness is not always appreciated.''

Not always, but often enough. Behind Mendes, lining an entire wall of his office, is a (partial) testament to how often he has won this game. There are mementos from the Oscars and numerous theater awards. There are photos of Judi Dench in ''The Cherry Orchard,'' which Mendes directed when he was 24. Although his Commander of the British Empire medal from the queen is displayed, the Oscar (along with the Tony for ''Cabaret'') lives at home in Primrose Hill in North London. ''Oscar is dressed in a Hawaiian shirt,'' Mendes says. ''It makes him more approachable.''